The Crash
by TheAwesomeMoustache
Summary: All Arthur and Francis wanted was to spend a family vacation with their two absolute treasures, Alfred and Mathew. It was supposed to be a celebration, after all. So what could happen in a blink of an eye to change everything? *All may be slightly out of character. Because, after something like that, nothing is ever the same.* Oneshot.


All was quiet (well, as quiet as it can be in the city that never sleeps), with busy traffic being a familiar background noise and low murmurs of interesting conversations. Indeed, if you were not a native to the busy streets in the late afternoon, you might as well be doomed to be stuck in traffic. But today was no ordinary day. In fact, it was going to be an eventful day, of the worst kind. But that is not relevant now. At least, not yet.

Now, if you were a very _nosy_ passerby, what a very _peculiar_ sight it would be to see a British gentleman, driving a rented Japanese car, with a most likely French passenger by his side (a red rose in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other was a minor, very small giveaway, mind you), including a blonde haired and blue-eyed stereotypical American (a McDonalds burger in one hand, and a Frisbee toy most likely found in the discarded 'Happy Meal' box on the floor was being waved around too), and a boy (or could it be a girl?) cowering visibly in the backseat. A white bear was also in the shaking boy's lap, looking stuffed, yet so fluffy. The bizarre (again, as bizarre as it can be to see this in 'The Big Apple') situation was all very..._strange,_ yes indeed.

_It's worth it now to mention there were a lot of cars moving abnormally fast today. Maybe a new movie was out, or a parade was happening. But whatever the reason was, it led to an increase of reckless drivers. Nothing major, really. Again, not yet._

''Mattie, when will you ever be on _my side_ for once? Just because Fancy Francis here gets his panties in a twist, doesn't mean you have to side with him _all the time_!'' Alfred grumbled, though an American grumble was a more like the French's inside voice; clear but annoying to the British.

''Quit it you two, before I have to reach over there make sure both of you understand just how mad the English can get!'' Arthur yelled. For a brief moment a car almost swerved _a little too close _for comfort, but he maneuvered expertly through. _This isn't that bad, _he thought. _It's kind of like how I had to drive home to see the royal wedding of Prince William and Lady Kate. What a horrible mess of traffic that was-_

''Control your child, Arthur, or I shall have to do it myself! What do you say we slip in a little bit of wine into that chocolate shake he has every day? Shall we see?''

The slightly attractive voice succeeded in giving Arthur, the poor bloke, a headache. ''Well, if you're so eager, why don't we slip in a little wine into that brain of yours, and just see if it does anything or not. And for goodness' sake Alfred, _STOP TOUCHING ME!_''

As quickly as the offending hand poked the sensitive shoulder, it just as fast retracted into the depths of a baggy red sweater. A small grin flashed onto the other boy's face, while his eyes widened innocently and resembled a child's. All the slack-jawed American could do was reluctantly lean back in his seat, shooting Swiss daggers at the Canadian. Oh, so this 'cowering' Canadian was... not so naïve after all. Even he, an angel-like being on the outside with the most _unusual_ purple eyes to boot, concealed a hidden vengeful side, only known to the now morose Alfred.

''Al, you should have known not to hide my father's Bordeaux wine! It's his favorite one, and I got it for him on his birthday! It was wrong of you, and you know it!'' Mathew exclaimed (it was commonly described as a normal 'quiet' inside voice to Francis and Arthur, but it was considered a tiny whisper to his step-brother). His voice; quiet and unobtrusive. His secret infliction; smugness at its finest. What a smart, polite Canadian. It was clear that he matured well. Very well. Perhaps a little _too _well.

''Bastard,'' Alfred quietly murmured, under his breath so as to escape the notice of the the big-eyebrowed driver. So what a surprise it was to him (yes, it was only to him, since Mathew knew just how loud to make his voice understandable to the near deaf American, yet undetected to the ears of the parents in the front. He had it down to an _art_) when the Canadian shot back a silent ''Look who's talking.''

_It would be very crucial to mention that not everyone had their seatbelts on. Of course, this went unnoticed. After all, it was just habit. An innocent one, at that._

''Are we there yet? How about now? What about now? Are we? Are we? So-''

''Arthur, the thing is talking again. Make it stop, dear, please. I can't be attractive, flirty, and sexy at the same time if that Burger Breath keeps fogging up the car. Come on, I know this isn't only punishing me here. I know you love me when I'm at my most finest,"' Francis cooed, sarcasm laced through some words, and sheer persuasion in others. Needless to say, sounds of silent retching from the backseat filled the car, making _another _'metaphorical' vein in Arthur's _'_metaphorical' exploding head pop. _If they don't shut up, and I mean it, if they don't shut their mouths, I'm going to 'metaphorically' kill them both. Am I even using it in the right context? I'm so annoyed right now I...I can't even think straight._

''I'm so sorry, _dear, _but you know as well as I do that I can't control that boy. Let's just hope that he doesn't get the idea to _burn down_ the hotel when we get there. On another note, I'm missing London quite a lot, you know. Out of all places, _this _has to be my vacation,'' He huffed. It wasn't a vacation, not exactly, but more like a celebration of two succesful years as a family. Why New York? Well, Francis and Alfred wanted to go, while Mathew didn't really care. After various threats to shave off his abnormally thick eyebrows (IT'S GENETIC) he finally gave in. So, New York City it is.

When the American heard the 'idea', it was processed through Alfred's head, making him realize how very easy it would be to make chaos in the hotel. Pranking the valet (if there is one for their car), or the doorman (if the hotel is just _that _fancy), or even the bellman (because let's face it; _bellman. _Just begging to be ridiculed by an immature teenager with an attitude) seemed like fun options. Maybe devouring the entire buffet _just because he can, _or maybe, just maybe seeing if he could get room service. Most preferably from McDonalds. Oh yes, he had high hopes. Very high hopes. After all, it is a vacation.

''Maybe we could take a second honeymoon again, mon amour? I saw a wonderful massage place just now, but I guess if you want I can do the job myself-''

''Papa...'' Mathew softly whined, though he was used to his adoptive father's way of speaking. It was almost expected every day to chastise his father, though everything was done in jest. Francis did not mind, he never minded. It was an affectionate way of speaking between them. ''Dude,'' Alfred muttered, put out by the French man's _suggestiveness._ They might have been married for a year now, _but still_. TMI.

''Oh mon petite, do not shy away from Papa's _bold_ vocabulary! Haven't you learned anything from me since I adopted you?'' France asked, shifting toward Mathew. The grey fabric of the chair made a chaffing sound with Francis' flashy and expensive blue coat. A _designer coat,_ actually. How typical.

_At least Arthur and Francis had a seat belt._

''Whatever, yada yada, no one cares. Hey Pops, look! A MCDONALDS!''

_So it had to be the two teenagers who would take the fall._

''You git-'' Arthur got out, before he realized one of two things. 1) A truck, _a bloody truck_, of all things, a blue, fancy, and squeaky clean truck, was being driven by an assumed drunk driver, and 2) _Alfred. He adopted him eleven years ago when the boy was still a sweet six-year-old, when he finally realized that he had enough money as a chairman of a company for two (which was two times too much for just one). He raised Al all by himself until just two years ago. And he did not have his seat belt on. Neither did sweet Mattie, who clasped instantly onto Alfred like a lifeline. A very scared, very confused and absolutely horrified lifeline._

_They were as close as two flesh and blood brothers. _

_The usually fast thinking English Gentleman didn't even need to look at it to know that it was coming towards Mathew's side of the car. All he remembered was the absolutely _terrified _look in his lover's eyes. The red rose, the same red rose that Arthur got him as a gift of love earlier that day, held in Francis' hand, fell through his fingertips. If only they knew at the time that its scattered petals would still be on the fabric mat, even after the car had sustained its damage. Symbolism appears in the most twisted ways, it seems._

_...oOo..._

_A murky dreamland is no walk in the park._

Faint thoughts, like grey clouds, stuck together like pink bubblegum in his mind. It was vaguely irritating. It was like sickly sweet _gum _melting in the presence of a boiling hot sun. It was insubstantial, and the _sense_ of it was almost disgusting. _And why won't his head stop hurting?_

Completely oblivious to the internal struggle going on in the patient's head, two lovers sat next to each other. Still dressed in the same clothes. One had a dark green corduroy jacket and matching pants, while the other had an expensive-looking blue coat with red trousers. They leaned on each other, they held hands, their knees even almost touched. But never in either of their lives have they felt so... _separate. So, utterly and hopelessly, alone. _Poetic? Yes. Desirable? _No._

Different nurses passed by the room, occasionally shooting fervent glances through the slightly open door, discreetly hoping to catch a glimpse at whatever was happening. Every now and again one would have to come in and check the vitals, make notes of the changes (or what little changes there were), and then scurry out again before they could risk outright _staring _at the couple. _At the two men. _

_''Have you seen the situation in room 218?''_

_''They only information I saw on the paperwork was the bare minimum. The British one, he's thirty-eight. But he could pass for much younger. And his...companion, is thirty-seven, but he's also quite handsome. That's all I know, Elizaveta.''_

_''Should we be worried about the couple?''_

_''Um...No, I think they just need some time...''_

To grieve.

_The dreamland wasn't getting any lighter. _Actually, it seemed to get heavier, what with all the painkillers and fluids in his body. The faint scent of hand sanitizer lingered in the air, a scent that he _hated_. It only belonged to one place. But all disgusting sanitizer aside, another smell tainted the air. It was even fainter than the vile sanitizer. It was...flowery, sweet, yet not overbearing. It was perfect. It was beautiful. He hated the smell, no, he just didn't like what it represented, it was someone. It represented someone. Two someones...It was-

''_Francis!_'' He yelled. Wires held him back, tightening in protest to the abrupt rough treatment. The first observation was to his right, where a couple of bags hung off a rack, along with a machine. His heart sped up a bit. It was obvious though, since a beeping noise beeped along to his heart. Something, anything, needed to calm down his racing heart. Something...he needed something. Needed. Needed someone. It was important. And though he felt calm and seemingly at ease to himself, his heart rate steadily climbed. It was getting a bit harder to breathe now...

''Al? Alfie, is that you? Oh dear lord, _Francis, _Francis, get up will you, hurry up and let me go to him!''Arthur whispered. The black plastic chair screeched, making everyone flinch. Francis just limply leaned away. It escaped the notice of Arthur, who hastily took Alfred's hand in his own.

''Hmm? There's...too much. Too much perfume. Only belongs to someone. Only someone.'' Alfred croaked. His voice was hoarse and dry, because who knows just how long he'd been asleep?

''Yes, Alfred, it belongs to the frog. Are you alright? Do you remember anything? _Anything at all?_'' Arthur inquired, his own voice quiet and broken. It cracked in some places, barely heard in others. He brushed his light blonde hair out of his eyes to see his _son_. A son that he thought would _never_ wake up.

_Francis was still in his chair, numb and caught in the very same dreamland Alfred had just emerged from. Except this time, it was worse. Real life was thrown into the mix._

''Oh my! What do we have here? I see he's awake, that's good, I'll go tell the head RN. I'll just be a moment,'' A nurse said. Only a sliver of her face and mousey brown hair was seen before the door shut with a deafening 'creak'.

''I remember the car...Nothing else. And what happened to your arm?'' Alfred asked, his blue eyes widening at the sight of a white cast around Arthur's right arm. It was light, and seemed to be the only injury, save a small square bandage on his cheek. Upon further inspection, there were _bags_ under his dull green eyes, which seemed to droop with exhaustion. His normally pale face was even paler under the hospital lights. Overall, his appearance was utterly _haggard. _And it made Alfred sick.

''I'm fine, just a light injury, nothing at all serious. Oh thank God you're alright, I don't' know what I would've done if...''

The English man's voice faded off in the end. It was so confusing, seeing this expression on Arthur, of all people. To Alfred, Arthur was always confident, always well-spoken, and sure of everything. So how come the man who had raised him for most of his life had a hopeless, almost despairing look on his face? Not to mention Francis, who was still in the surely uncomfortable plastic chair. The French man's vacant gaze at the white wall was a little...off. But then again, everything was a little off. And _who was missing?_

''Is there someone that's supposed to be here? It's bugging me, and I...I can't remember who. It's someone.''

_Francis lifted a finger and did what was considered blasphemy to him; He started to bite at his perfect fingernails. And then he began to shake silently, just a little._

Silence took over the room. Arthur wouldn't look anywhere except the soft cloth of the hospital bed. Alfred just stared at him, trying to decipher the cryptic body language. Someone! Someone was supposed to be here, _is _supposed to be here, the person was crucial, and it's all maddening, _this was maddening-_

''Hello...Dad? They need to be here, can you go get them?'' Alfed innocently asked, lifting his hand up to tug at Arthur's green jacket. Only a quiet murmur was heard.

''I...can't, Al. I can't. There is no one to get Al, there's no one-''

''Damn right there's no one! Mon ange...he's gone. He's all gone. And it's all your fault!'' Francis yelled. His hands flew to grip the armrests of the chair, turning his knuckles white with the pressure. The usually emotional man had no tears, and with a sickening shock Alfred realized that he had _no more _to give. Unbeknownst to Alfred, all of the tears were spent when it was _Alfred _who got treatment first, because with the angle the car had crashed into the side, no one saw his Mathew. No one. No one saw his _own son_, adopted be damned.

He raised that fragile purple-eyed teenager when he was adopted at ten years old. It was only six years ago. Mathew was wonderful, he was the son he never had. With France's job as a designer, it was easy to incorporate little Mattie in his world. And when he found the love of his life in Arthur, everything was perfect for two years. And now it had vanished right before his own eyes.

_The murky dreamland held a memory of a stuffed fluffy bear. A red hoodie. Purple eyes, so startling it's almost alien. Pancakes that were cooked at seven a.m in the morning, with a heavy dose of thick maple syrup. Hockey games with the crisp bite of winter included. All of these and more._

And as suddenly as Francis' outburst rang out, Alfred started crying uncontrollably. Arthur stretched out his left hand, the one that was free of the bloody cast to try and soothe Al, but it faltered, then fell. ''Alfred I'm-''

''I want Kuma!'' The shaking seventeen year old shouted. It was shocking, to say the least. Even the French man held his tongue. Only to give way to seething rage. But Alfred apparently wasn't done. ''_I want pancakes! I want the maple syrup! I want the hockey and the hoodie and everything back!_''

No one noticed the designated RN, with the name 'Elizaveta', pop into the room, but just as quickly as she entered she shut the door. _Oh will the ladies in the office gossip when they hear about this..._

Even Arthur had to step back from the hospital bed, emotion overtaking him. There are no words. There are no words to comfort _his son_ completely, no familiar words of hope to lull him to sleep like when he was five years old. _There can be no words. _''After everything, he doesn't want _him_. He doesn't want his _own brother _to be by his side. He killed him.'' Francis whispered. What Francis didn't know is that he had it all wrong.

Alfred never truly needed anything before. _Not like this. _He didn't want anything of his stepbrother's. He didn't need any of it. Only his _father _knew what was hidden beneath those words. He wanted everything back, true. The pancakes, the late night hockey games at the local rink back in London during the winter. The red hoodie that was given to _him _for his sixteenth birthday. And of course, the sweet maple syrup that was never out of stock in the family household.

Alfred wanted what all those things represented. He wanted _Mattie _back. And only Arthur knew what Alfred meant. _How heartbreaking._

_Nothing was ever the same._

_...oOo..._

**_A.N: _**_This just popped into my mind at three in the morning. I ended up finishing two hours later. So much editing! If it seemed like a rollercoaster with the feels, then I did my job well. I wanted to try writing something that transitions from happy to heavy as Thor's hammer today, just to see if I could. I've been seeing commercials about car accidents and everything, so it kind've wormed its way here. I'm also sorry if this strikes a chord of any kind with you, didn't mean to offend anyone. Leave a review, please, I would really appreciate it. Let me know if I did a good job.*P.S: New York is awesome, I just chose it randomly.*_

_Mon Ange, according to Google, is 'my angel'. Because I can't speak French._


End file.
